


True North

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Affairs, Angst, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is official business that brings Jon Snow to Winterfell.  It is personal business that damns him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: _The last time Jon saw Sansa was a year ago when he came to visit her in Winterfell, and they had brief fling before he went back to KL to continue his duties as Daenarys’ heir. When he returns he notices that her new baby looks suspiciously like him._

He marries Daenerys on a cold, sunny day in the Great Sept of Baelor. Jon tells her he does not keep the Seven, but Daenerys tells him the wedding is as much for the people as it is for them. Jon barely knows the woman who is now his wife, the woman they say is truly his aunt, but Jon doesn't feel like a Targaryen. Dany knows this, and she tries to tell him he will get used to it, that he'll come to accept being referred to as Jon Targaryen, to not flinch when someone calls him "your grace."

When Dany asks if he would mind going North to treat with Sansa, Jon leaps at the chance. He misses the North fiercely, misses the brisk cold, the weirwoods, the people who did not recoil from the sight of Ghost padding along beside him. Jon knows all at Winterfell is well; Mance writes often, telling of the reconstruction of the castle, the respect Sansa earns from her people, the way the wildlings look at Rickon as one of their own. His former sister is only the regent until Rickon comes of age, and Jon suspects Dany is grateful for that. There are songs about Sansa now, the sly wolf who hid in plain sight, who wed a Lannister and a Hardyng but still called herself Lady Stark. The Lannisters are all gone now, all of the gold in Casterly Rock inherited by Tyrion Lannister's widowed wife; Jon thinks there is a certain poetry in Tywin Lannister's money rebuilding Winterfell. Hardyng is gone too, killed in the war; Jon never met the man known as Harry the Heir, but they say Sansa's son is the spitting image of him. Jon only saw little Ned Hardyng once; he had the Tully eyes, that clear blue that would always remind Jon of poor Robb, and white-blond down covering his head. Sansa let Jon hold her son for a moment, and she looked so young when he handed the baby back. She was only six-and-ten then. 

He rides North with only a handful of men, promising Gilly to bring her well-wishes to the wildlings who serve Winterfell. As Sam gives him the documents Dany wants signed by Sansa, he explains how sad Gilly is she cannot travel with him to see her sisters, and Jon teases his best friend that, if he would stop getting children on his poor wife, she might be able to travel someday. The babe she carries now is the fifth since the war ended, the sixth if they count little Aemon who is fostered at Horn Hill, and Jon envies Sam his children. Though the maesters and maegis all agree the prophecy has been fulfilled and there is no reason Daenerys cannot conceive, there have been no children in their marriage, not even a single pregnancy. Gods know they try; often Jon thinks the only place he and Daenerys truly understand each other is their marriage bed, but every month brings blood and Dany's deepening sadness. On those days, Jon knows she retreats to the dragon pits to spend time with the only children she might ever have.

When he spies Winterfell rising through the morning fog, Jon cannot control himself; he spurs his horse on immediately, leaving his guard to catch up, and he instantly recognizes one of the men on the wall surrounding Winterfell. Jon raises his hand in greeting and the big man laughs, his voice seeming to echo across the land as he bellows, "Lord Snow, return from the South!"

Jon has never been so grateful to see Tormund Giantsbane in his life.

By the time he enters the yard of Winterfell, men and women are coming to greet him, taking the knee for King Jon. Jon hurries them to their feet, greeting Mance, Tormund, Tormund's sons, Craster's daughters, Beth Cassel, the few servants who survived their time at the Dreadfort. Ghost does not seem to know what to do with himself, loping around the yard as if he was a pup again, and when Shaggydog comes rushing from the castle, Rickon quick on his heels, Jon feels a peace steal over him he has not felt in years.

Jon barely recognizes his baby brother-turned-cousin, the boy Lord of Winterfell, Prince in the North. Rickon is just shy of three-and-ten, shoulders beginning to broaden, stubble on his jaw. He is built like Robb with Ned Stark's solemn face below Catelyn Tully's auburn hair, and Jon finds himself longing so desperately for the family the Lannisters stole from them he nearly chokes. Rickon embraces him tightly, surprising Jon with his strength, and it is such a pleasant change from their first meeting after the war when Rickon was half-feral from life on Skaagos with Osha, distrusting everyone and everything.

In the excitement of his return, Jon misses Sansa's appearance in the yard, and when he notices her, he finds himself frozen for a moment. She is as tall as he is now, her auburn hair dressed intricately against her head; her gown in simple, grey and white with little embroidery, and Jon sees Val standing behind her, a small smirk playing at her lips. Little Ned holds Sansa's hand, and Jon sees little of her in the boy; he is handsome and tall like his mother, and Jon sees the interest in his eyes, especially when the Queensguard rides into Winterfell in their white armor.

Her curtsy is as graceful as it ever was. "Your Grace."

Jon takes her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Your Grace."

Sansa smiles, but there does not seem to be much warmth behind it. She looks down to Ned and says, "Will you introduce yourself to King Jon?"

Jon watches with amusement as the boy draws back his shoulders, puffing up with the pride of youth. "I am Eddard Hardyng, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East."

It takes all of Jon's strength not to smile at Sansa's son. "That was a fine introduction, Lord Eddard. Your mother has taught you well."

Ned beams before pointing to Longclaw. "Can I see your sword?"

Sansa clicks her tongue in reproach before giving orders to the servants, requesting Jon and his men be given lodgings. Jon wants to speak to her, to reminisce about the past, but Sansa stays busy, surrounded by her ladies and councilors. Rickon names the ones Jon doesn't know - Mya Stone, Myranda Royce, Wylla Manderly - and ravens begin arriving from the Great Houses of the North to tell of their coming to call upon the king. Jon hasn't seen the Northern lords in so long, and it warms him that men who do not have to bend the knee to him still wish to see him.

He trades his Southron silks and velvets for the plain clothes of his youth. Jon has always felt better in warm fabrics and leather, and Rickon is eager to take him around Winterfell. When they reach the heart tree, Jon kneels before it to pray, Rickon following Shaggydog and Ghost further into the godswood. Jon prays for the ones he knows are gone - Ned, Robb, Commander Mormont, Stannis, Ygritte, even Lady Catelyn - and the ones whose fates they've never known: Arya, Bran, Uncle Benjen. Those are the ones that haunt him the most; sometimes he will see a skinny girl with dark hair, and Jon will open his mouth to cry out Arya's name only to see it isn't her at all. He imagines it is worse for Sansa, who lives in their childhood home, who is surrounded by memories of all that was taken.

It is all so perfectly polite. The first fortnight is full of visiting lords, conversation with no real aim; Jon does not mention the papers Dany wants signed and Sansa doesn't mention why she has allowed this visit. One afternoon Jon says, "I would like to visit the crypts," and Sansa nods, calls for a torch.

Jon is surprised when Sansa joins him, descending the stairs down into the earth; the temperature drops as it always does, and Jon notices her slight shiver. He does not think twice, removing his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders, and he catches only a glimpse of the surprise in her eyes before she murmurs her thanks.

For the first time, Jon truly looks at Lyanna Stark's statue. He had never given much thought to his father's poor sister before but now, knowing this is his mother's tomb he stands before, Jon feels emotion welling in his chest. His father - and Jon does not think he will ever be able to think of Ned Stark as anything else - always brought flowers, and so Jon sets a few winter roses in her stone lap. Sansa leads him to their father's statue, and Jon sees Lady Catelyn and Robb sit beside him, their likenesses too perfect, too silent. Jon knows their bodies were never recovered after the Red Wedding, that his father's bones went missing; this does not hurt more than anything else. But when Jon notices that, in addition to a sword placed across Robb's lap, there is a stone direwolf beside him bearing Grey Wind's face, he loses his composure and begins to cry.

He isn't ashamed by it. Jon does not think a day goes by that he does not miss his brother, doesn't wonder if things would have ended differently if he had succeeded in fleeing the Wall and joined him in his war. Mayhaps he could have stopped him from trusting Theon Greyjoy, from breaking his marriage contract with Walder Frey, from dying on Roose Bolton's sword. He rests his hand atop Robb's stone one, and Jon hears Sansa sniffling as well. Jon turns and sees her face is wet with tears, and Jon has never felt as close to Sansa as he does in this moment.

"I was going to have statues made of Arya and Bran, but I keep hoping - " Her voice breaks, and Sansa looks away. Jon doesn't need her to finish; he knows her hopes because they are his as well.

Things feel different that night. Rather than eating in the great hall, Sansa invites him to sup in her solar with Rickon and Ned. Jon thinks he sees Sansa's ladies exchange pointed looks, but he cannot imagine why that would be. In the privacy of her solar, Sansa seems to become a different person entirely. When Jon arrives, Sansa's hair is flowing freely over her shoulders, seated on the floor with Ned and Rickon, who is amusing his nephew with a war fought between wooden knights. Sansa looks up at him, the flush of happiness on her cheeks, and she is so beautiful, Jon wonders how every man she passes does not throw himself at her feet. 

"Would you like to play with us, Jon? We are fighting back the Others."

He folds himself down beside her, and Ned grins at him with an openness only a child can have. The little boy extends him a carved giant, and Jon finds himself telling them the story of Wun-Wun. Both Rickon and Ned beg for more stories, and when the servants bring food, Sansa dismisses them, making up plates and letting them eat on the floor. While the boys sip mugs of honeyed milk, he and Sansa drink Arbor gold straight from the skin, and Jon sees her eyes grow as wide as the boys at some of the stories he tells. 

When he runs out of stories appropriate to tell a child of four, Rickon surprises Jon by telling tales of Skaagos, of unicorns and Osha and learning to spear fish. Sansa even tells a few of her own, of tournaments and the Vale and the Battle of the Blackwater. By the time Ned’s nurse come for him, both he and Rickon are falling asleep before the fire. While Rickon shuffles towards his room, brushing a kiss against Sansa’s cheek as he goes, Jon is surprised when Ned launches himself into his arms, squeezing him tightly.

“Good night, Uncle Jon. I love you.”

Jon looks at Sansa over Ned’s shoulder, noticing the pained expression Sansa cannot hide. “I love you too, Ned. In the morning, how about we go to the hot springs for a swim?”

Ned nods excitedly before leaving with his nurse, and Jon sees Sansa’s body sag as she sighs, leaning back against the foot of her bed. He reaches up, pulling down the second skin of wine and Sansa motions for him to pass it once he has taken a drink. She wipes her mouth with the back of his hand, and Jon’s surprise must show on his face because she laughs, high and bright. The sound makes Jon grin and soon they have devolved into peals of laughter so strong, it makes Jon’s ribs ache.

“You’re very good with him,” Sansa remarks when their laughter has abated, sipping from the skin. “Ned likes you a great deal. He keeps asking if you _must_ go back to the Dragon Queen.”

“You could visit,” Jon offers. “He could play with Sam and Gilly’s children, and we could – “

“No,” Sansa cuts in immediately, “we will never step foot in King’s Landing, not ever again.”

He studies her for a moment before murmuring, “What did they do to you?”

“Which one?” Sansa asks cynically.

Jon has seen the horrors of war. Sometimes he and Dany spoke all through the night about the things they had seen. He silently curses himself for ever thinking Sansa would have been spared. “Did you – Did they – The men, did they – “

“They tried. So many tried. But Harry is the only man I’ve ever had in my bed.”

“Did you love him?”

The snort that escaped her lips was the most unladylike sound Jon had ever heard Sansa make. “Gods no. You’d have hated him. He was handsome, handsomer than almost any man I’d ever seen before, and he knew it. Already he had gotten bastards on women in the Vale. Until the day we wed, he thought I was Alayne Stone, Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter. And when he learned I was Sansa Stark, that he could have both the Eyrie _and_ Winterfell and all he’d have to do to ensure it was to get a child on me, he came became single minded about it. Morning, noon, night, I could scarcely keep him off of me.”

“He forced you?”

Sansa shakes her head, glancing at the fire crackling in the fireplace. “I knew the only way I could go home was if I had a child. I would have let him fall on me a thousand times if it meant I could come back here.” She gives a small smile. “And it certainly ended better for me than it did for Harry. Ned is the best part of him, and I got to come home.”

“I wish I had been allowed to do the same,” Jon blurts out, and he feels as if it is a horrible betrayal of Daenerys to say so. Their marriage is not perfect but there _is_ love there. Dany named Sam Grand Maester, allowed the North to secede from the Seven Kingdoms, had given Jon everything he requested in order to agree to their marriage. No one could ever say Daenerys was unkind or not empathetic to his wants. 

But she did not understand Winterfell or what it meant to be a Stark, and Jon did not doubt he would consider himself a Stark until the day he died.

Sansa leans forward, placing her hand atop his. It is warm and soft, and Jon feels heat flare in his gut. “You’re home now, Jon.”

He doesn’t know who moves first. All Jon knows is Sansa’s mouth is hot and tastes so sweet, her fingers twisting in his hair. Jon kisses her with more desperation than he even realized he felt, and Sansa moans against him, her hands falling to his jerkin, working the laces with quick pulls of her fingers. Everything logical and duty bound in Jon’s body screamed at him to stop, but he couldn’t, not now, not with Sansa panting his name as she helps him take off her gown.

It seems wrong to take her on the furs before the fire, thrusting into her with too little grace and too much want. Sansa clutches him with grasping hands, her nails nearly drawing blood as she digs them into his shoulders, pushing her hips up to meet his thrusts. He dimly hears himself panting her name, and Sansa answers with his own. It is over too fast, Sansa clenching tight around him as she peaks, Jon spilling like a green boy. Sansa cards her fingers through his damp hair as their breathing regulates, and Jon buries his face in her shoulder, peppering kisses there.

“You’re home,” Sansa repeats, and Jon knows it is true.

They spend every night together and even some afternoons, claiming official business to lock themselves away in Sansa’s solar. They are insatiable for each other, and Jon feels younger than he has in years; they aren’t so old, not really, and Sansa reminds him of the boy he was before the world fell apart. Some days he can think of nothing but Sansa, daydreaming of her mouth, her teats, her cunt, the feel of her falling asleep in his arms. On those days he pulls her into any available room, setting his mouth to her cunt and listening to her wail about how good it is. 

They’re hardly discreet. Only two days into their affair, Val finds him and calls him an absolute idiot; Mya Stone glares at him constantly; Tormund threatens his life while sharing a tankard of mead. The North loves Sansa Stark almost as much as Jon does, and they will defend her with their last breaths, even if the defense she needs is from the amorous affections of the Southron king. _I’m one of you_ , Jon wants to say a thousand times, but he isn’t anymore, not really; he is Jon Targaryen now, the child of Rhaegary Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, not Ned Stark’s bastard anymore.

“I leave tomorrow,” Jon reminds Sansa one evening as they sit before the fire in her solar, Sansa’s hands working diligently on a shirt for Ned.

“Yes, I know.”

“That is all you are going to say?”

Sansa exhales, setting her work down. “What would you have me say, Jon? Should I plead with you to stay? Should I tear at my dress and my hair, declare that I will plunge a dagger into my heart if you do not remain at Winterfell? I always knew you were going to leave after the second moon’s turn.”

“Will you miss me?” he asks, hating himself for even posing the question.

Sansa’s face softens. “Of course I will. If I could, I would have you here with me for the rest of our days. But that is not possible or the world we live in. You are married, Jon, married to a woman who I doubt would take very kindly to be slighted like this. And as I have no desire to have the North burned by dragons, I send you back to her with a kiss and a promise that I will cherish the memories of this time together, but that is all I send with you.”

“Sansa – “

“I have two boys to protect, Jon, two boys I have to raise to be good men so they can rule better than the men we’ve known. I cannot afford to jeopardize that for anyone, not even you.” She leans forward, grasping his hands tightly in hers. “We still have tonight. That will need to be enough.”

 _It will never be enough_ , Jon wants to protest, but he doesn’t. If Sansa can be this strong, he can be as well. 

Rickon hugs him far too tightly when they say their goodbyes and then disappears into the godswood. Sansa explains he isn’t good with farewells, and Jon thinks Rickon has had it the worst of all of them. At least he and Sansa have their memories of what it was like before, to have grown up in Winterfell safe and loved. Rickon has so little, future king or not.

Ned hugs him tightly as well, tears welling in his blue eyes. Jon promises to visit again, giving him the fine direwolf pin Dany gave him as a present during their betrothal, and Ned proudly fastens it to the front of his shirt.

Sansa’s face gives away nothing as Jon kisses her hand, thanking her for her hospitality and continued support. They are not Jon and Sansa now; they have returned to being King and Queen Regent, and that is all they can be.

“Safe travels, your grace,” Sansa says in parting.

Jon rides hard out of Winterfell, forcing himself not to look back.

If Daenerys suspects something transpired on his visit North, she says nothing. Dany welcomes him back with warm words and kisses, and Jon feels like an absolute shit. He tells no one, not even Sam, what happened with Sansa, and Jon begins to convince himself it was all a vivid dream, like the ones he had after the stabbing on the Wall.

The years pass quickly. When the raven arrives from Winterfell written in Rickon’s horrendous handwriting requesting he attend his coronation, Jon is shocked by it. He hadn’t realized so much time had passed, that Rickon had reached his sixteenth year already. 

“Go,” Daenerys encourages with a smile. “He wants you there and you obviously want to be there. I’ll be in Dorne anyway to discuss the trading routes with Arianne, and I know how you hate the heat there.”

It is her trust in him more than anything that makes Jon nearly decline the invitation.

He marvels at the amount of progress that has been made on the castle in just three years time. It nearly looks like the Winterfell of his youth, and Jon can tell Sansa has spent a great deal of gold outfitting the castle for Rickon’s coronation. As he climbs from his horse, Rickon greets him with a hug so fierce, Jon is thrown back to the day he and Robb parted. If not for his Stark eyes, Rickon would be a perfect replica of his oldest brother, and Jon cannot believe little Rickon is now a man.

Ned bounces on the balls of his feet at Rickon’s side, Jon’s direwolf pin on the front of his shirt, and Jon bends to embrace the boy. He is nearly eight now, the same age Bran was the last time Jon saw him, but Jon cannot think of that right now. Instead he ruffles Ned’s blond hair and tells him how has missed him, that he seems to have grown a foot since the last time they saw each other.

Sansa’s gown is a dazzling shade of emerald this time, her auburn hair held back on the sides with jeweled combs. For a moment, all Jon can do is stare at her, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst, trying to find his voice. It was only when Sansa broke his gaze Jon notices there is a child standing next to Sansa, hiding behind her skirts.

The child is a girl no older than two, her grey eyes wide, black curls falling down around her chin. Her gown is more elegant than Jon remembers Sansa’s and Arya’s being when they were small, and he wonders if Sansa purchased this gown for his arrival. Jon knows to the core of his being that this little girl is the result of his last visit, and when he looks at Sansa again, she is silently pleading with her eyes for him not to say a word.

“Welcome back, your grace.”

“Thank you for hosting me, your grace.”

“Lady Stark,” Sansa corrects with a hint of sadness. “I am just Lady Stark now.”

“Lady Stark,” Jon repeats, his eyes drawn to the little hand wrapped so tightly in Sansa’s skirt. “And who is this?”

“This is my daughter Lyra.”

“Lyra,” he echoes, awestruck. Dropping his voice so only Sansa could hear, he asks, “Snow?”

“ _Stark_ ,” Sansa replies almost defiantly, her blue eyes flashing. 

There are no Snows in Winterfell, Mance tells him when they speak later. Jon does not understand at first until Val spells it out clearly: Sansa decreed any bastard born in the North is entitled to the same name as its trueborn siblings. How often had he wished for any other surname than “Snow” as a child? How many times had he flinched when the brothers in black called him Lord Snow? It makes him overwhelmingly glad Lyra does not have to bear the burden of such a name.

“Who does the North think is her father?” Jon asks Val as they walk in the godswood. 

“Most people are polite enough not to ask. A few suspect one of the Free Folk; they think she’s too friendly with us. Everyone at Winterfell knows, and we all say nothing.” Val glares at him. “Do you plan on leaving her with another belly full of babe this time?”

“I didn’t plan on it last time!”

“I swear, Jon Snow, the Gods made you twice as pretty as most men and twice as stupid as well.”

No one has called him Jon Snow since the war. It surprises him how much he is glad to hear his former name.

While waiting for Rickon’s bannermen to arrive, Jon spends his days trying to spend time with Lyra. It is not as easy as spending time with Ned, but Jon learns quickly that Lyra adores her older brother. When Jon agrees to watch Ned’s lesson with the master-at-arms, Mance’s son easily besting him time and time again, Lyra comes out with her nurse, clapping her hands each time Ned swings his sword. Jon offers to pick her up so she can see better, and he sees the indecision on her face before lifting her arms. Though Lyra pays him no mind, too busy shouting nonsense at her brother, Jon catalogues everything: the weight of her in his arms, the softness of her skin, the scent of her dark hair. Some time in the last few years, he and Dany accepted that they would not have a child, and the proof in his arms that he is a father makes Jon ache.

“Uncle Jon, watch!” Ned cries, and Jon obediently turns his eyes towards Sansa’s son, watching as he manages one good hit against Bael before he is struck down again. Jon hopes Ned Hardyng proves better with a bow than a sword or else he will be useless in battle.

The feel of Lyra’s little hand tapping his forehead draws Jon’s attention. Her little fingers trace the silvery scars around his eye, the other patting at his beard. Curiosity is naked on her face, and this close Jon can see all the ways they look alike. She has Sansa’s nose, the shape of her mouth, but the rest is him; he wonders if he looked like this as a baby, if Ned Stark had looked at him and saw his sister.

“Jon!”

The sharpness of Sansa’s voice startles him, and he can read her anger in every step. He is stunned when she extends her hands, taking Lyra from his arms, and Lyra gives a cry of dismay Jon wishes he could echo. 

It is easier when the bannermen arrive. Jon happily greets Sigorn and Alys, the Mormonts, fat Wyman Manderly and massive Greatjon Umber. If Rickon is overwhelmed by the attention, he hides it well, and Jon feels an unbearable amount of pride as the crown is placed upon Rickon’s head, the bannermen shouting, “The King in the North!”

While everyone else looks to Rickon, Jon finds Sansa, now standing behind the lord’s seat, a small, sad smile on her face. Mance begins to play a song Jon has heard many times since the war ended, the one the bards call “The Young Wolf Rides Again,” and Jon does not want Robb’s moniker applied to Rickon. Jon wants Rickon to live to have silver in his hair and dozens of grandchildren, and he knows Sansa wants the same. As the drinking and dancing begins, Jon moves closer to her, noticing her untouched plate.

“Your parents would be proud of what you’ve done.”

Sansa looks at him, her eyes watering. “Do you think so?”

Jon nods easily. “You reclaimed Winterfell. You rebuilt it. You’ve raised Rickon and kept him safe. You’ve done a fine job, Sansa.”

She reaches for her wine, draining it completely. Jon waits, patient. “There are already inquiries about finding Rickon a bride. And my uncle writes from the Eyrie, asking when Ned will be sent to learn how to rule when the time comes. I will have no place here once Rickon weds, and I have no wish to return to the Vale. There is no place for me now.”

“Your place is Winterfell.”

Sansa sighs. “No, Jon, it isn’t. A lady’s place is with her husband except my husbands are all dead and I did not much like either of them. I am not Rickon’s mother and so the new queen will likely not appreciate my continued presence here. The Vale…Mayhaps it can be Ned’s place but it certainly wasn’t mine. It would seem my next choice would be to find another husband.”

“Is that what you want?”

“What I want,” Sansa repeats, voice thick with derision. “Did you get everything you wanted, Jon?”

They both know the answer to that.

It genuinely surprises him when he wakes in the middle of the night to find Sansa climbing into his bed. Jon thinks to protest, but he has missed her so much. As Sansa moves above him, his hands gripping her hips so tight it is sure to bruise, Jon thinks about what she asked him earlier in the evening about getting everything he wanted.

“I want you,” he blurts out, sitting up and clutching Sansa to him. “I want you and Lyra and Ned. I want us to be a family. I want to get a dozen children on you. I want – I want – “

Sansa’s cry as she peaks stops him from completing the thought he does not know how to complete.

They spend the remaining days of his visit together. Jon waits impatiently all day for the meals he can spend with Sansa and the children, for the nights when he can fall asleep with Sansa in his arms. It is a fantasy and a careless one at that, but Jon cannot bring himself to stop. One evening, when Ned has gone to bed and Sansa reads by firelight, Jon holds Lyra in his lap, alternately tickling her to hear her giggles and smothering her in kisses.

“Oh, you love your papa, don’t you?” 

“Don’t say that,” Sansa instantly chastises, eyes wide with surprise.

“What?”

“She can’t call you that. She can never call you that.”

“But I’m her father. She should know – “

“She cannot know until she is old enough to understand why it must be kept a secret.”

“You have no idea what it is like to grow up not knowing who your parents are, Sansa. I want Lyra to know – “

“And risk your wife knowing as well?” Sansa rises from her chair, scooping Lyra from his lap. “I swear, Jon, it is as if you haven’t any sense sometimes.”

Jon knows he doesn’t have any sense, not when it comes to her.

He rides with Rickon through the wolfswood on one of his last days at Winterfell. They have just started back towards the castle when Rickon offers, “You could stay here, you know. I would welcome you.”

“I cannot stay.”

“Because of the Dragon Queen?”

No one in the North calls Dany by her name. Jon doesn’t know why he didn’t notice it before now. “Because she is my wife.”

“Her being your wife didn’t stop you from getting into Sansa’s bed.”

Jon flushes crimson at the statement. “Rickon, you must understand – “

“I understand. I don’t know why you and Sansa think I can’t understand anything just because I don’t remember what it was like before. Mayhaps I didn’t fight the Others or push Petyr Baelish out a moon door, but I understand some things.”

“What do you understand?”

“I understand every man who has come to Winterfell to since we returned has tried to get into Sansa’s bed, and she’s turned every one of them away. I understand you wed the Dragon Queen so the North could be free. And I understand Lyra is your daughter even if Sansa pretends like she isn’t.”

“I cannot just stay here. I have responsibilities in the South, and Daenerys – “

“If you go back to King’s Landing, you can’t come back here,” Rickon declares, his voice as hard as iron. “I won’t have you use Sansa this way.”

“I would never _use_ \- “

“But you are. Sansa deserves the very best, and the best is not playing at being your mistress while you are in the North.”

Rickon digs his heels into his horse, urging it away from Jon, and Jon does not follow. He is far too ashamed.

He leaves without saying goodbye, sneaking away in the dead of the night like a thief. Jon leaves a letter on his pillow, a true act of cowardice, and he and his guards sneak through Winterfell’s gates. He tries not to think of Sansa, of Rickon, of Ned and Lyra; he cannot bear the idea they will hate him for this. This is the better choice, though Jon knows it is certainly not the easy one.

Dany is still in Dorne when he returns to the Red Keep. Sam reads the unhappiness on his face, but Jon cannot bring himself to tell Sam the truth. He loves his old friend dearly, but to tell Sam he left Winterfell in the middle of the night, that he left his _daughter_ without a single word would be to admit Jon is not the man he always thought himself to be.

When Dany returns, it is with tales of the Water Gardens and Arianne’s cousins. Jon listens, tries to respond appropriately; she asks few questions about Rickon’s coronation, and Jon knows Dany seldom thinks of the North at all since their secession. They are no threat to her reign, not with three full-grown dragons at her disposal, and so Dany does not bother with them. It would be easy to avoid the truth indefinitely.

Instead he confesses, “I have a child in the North.”

Daenerys stops, freezes almost comically in place. After a moment she manages, “From before or after our marriage?”

“After.”

She closes her eyes, a muscle in her face leaping with tension as she clenches her jaw. “To whom?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

“It is not her fault. I was the one who initiated it, who pursued her – “

“Who?”

“Sansa.”

Daenerys winces as if he struck her. Jon knows there is no love lost between his wife and his lover. The one and only time they met, neither woman seemed to care for the other. Jon knows now the reasons; Daenerys resented Sansa’s insistence she was the rightful heir to the Lannister fortune and Sansa thought Daenery’s execution of Tommen Baratheon was unnecessary. He knows no woman wants to hear that their husband got a child on another woman, but knowing it is Sansa must certainly wound her more.

“A son?”

“A daughter.”

Dany rises from her seat, pacing the length of the room. Jon wishes she’d scream, wishes she’d strike him; he deserves all of it and more for such a betrayal. When Dany finally stops, glaring at him with those violet eyes he was once so captivated by, he feels infinitely smaller.

“I could have you killed for this, you know. You’re my consort, not the king, no matter what the people call you.”

“I know.”

“I could call Ser Barristan this instant, and he would take your head.”

“And you would have every right to do so.”

“I know what rights I have!” Dany bellows, beautiful in her fury. “I am a _khaleesi_ of the Dothraki, the Mother of Dragons, and the Queen of the Six Kingdoms, and none of that is anything you have given me!”

Jon nods, knowing now is the time to stay silent. He prays to the Old Gods that she does not feed him to Drogon. A good, swift death is the least he can ask for.

“I banish you,” Dany declares, her voice as cold as the Wall. “I strip you of titles and holdings, I strip you of your legitimization, and I will see you on the next ship leaving Westeros. Should you ever step foot in my kingdoms again, I will have you executed for treason.”

She does not exaggerate. He leaves King’s Landing with the clothes on his back, Ghost, and Longclaw, escorted to the docks by three knights of the Queensguard. Jon does not even know the name of the ship he is pushed onto; when it docks at Gulltown, with no gold in his purse, Jon trades his dagger for passage to White Harbor. 

By the time he reaches Winterfell, word has spread of his banishment. Once again the men he meets call him Jon Snow; the bastard’s name doesn’t bother him so much now, not when he knows the heavy price that comes with a true name. When he arrives at the gates, Jon says a silent prayer before continuing on.

Sansa does not seem surprised to see him. She comes out of the glass gardens with Lyra on her hip, their daughter’s fists full of flowers. Jon knows Rickon is at Deepwood Motte, that Sansa is serving as his castellan in the meantime. It is why he calls her Lady Stark, why he officially asks to be of service to House Stark.

“We always need men,” Sansa says, her lips curling into a smile as Lyra wiggles in her arms to reach Jon. “How long would you like to remain in Winterfell’s service?”

“As long as she will have me.”

Sansa lets Lyra go to him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Then come inside, Jon Snow. We have much to discuss before King Rickon returns. We mustn’t dally.”

“Of course not. Winter is coming.”

Sansa’s grin becomes positively beatific. “Winter is over, Jon. It’s high time we enjoyed the summer, isn’t it?”


End file.
